BlueBlooded Society
by V.M. Bell
Summary: Experiences shape who we are. This is Merope's experience.  Merope gen.


**Blue-Blooded Society**

Merope was six years old when they found the Muggle boy dead on the streets. Morfin had told her about it after dinner before turning his attention to more important things. The rumor was that he had fallen from the second story of his house and crashed into the market stalls. The fish woman turned around to yell at him, only to see that he was dead. She screamed and Little Hangleton convulsed in collective terror.

When Papa and Morfin weren't looking, Merope slipped out of the family's ramshackle hut and into the town (they would never notice, anyway, but it was best to take all precautions), where a quiet pallor hung over its residents. She didn't talk to anyone -- rule number one was to _never_ talk to anyone -- but it was enough to wander about and listen to the whispers.

"What was the boy's name again?"

"Christian Jones. Oh, his parents are simply _devastated_."

"What a terrible accident!"

"And where did you say it happened again?"

"Right in the marketplace across town. The lady whose stall little Christian fell on…oh, goodness, she's distraught and thinks it's all her fault. Do you think we should go and comfort her?"

"It would be terribly insensitive of us not to, wouldn't it? Yes, let's go."

Merope followed, but when they arrived at the strangely empty marketplace (at least, that was how it seemed to her -- she wasn't sure if they were supposed to be busy or not, but she had always assumed the former), she departed the gossiping, simpering ladies and stared at the ground.

The boy, of course, wasn't there. Merope couldn't have known, but the corpse lay in his bed as his parents sobbed over him. Merope, though, was transfixed by something else: a dark red sheen across the pavement like an upturned bucket of paint. What was it, this mysterious substance? She wanted to stick her fingers out and touch it, pet it as she might pet a butterfly sitting in her garden, but she instantly recoiled at the thought. No, don't come any closer, the red told her. Don't you dare.

Luckily, the neighboring women managed to satiate her curiosity.

"So that's where he landed?"

"Horrible, I know! Why on earth haven't they cleaned the blood up? Douse some water on it, honestly. I speak for everyone, I think, when I say that I don't want to be reminded of this more than I already am. It will not help us get over his death."

She stared blankly at -- yes, at the blood. That is what they called it, and they seemed knowledgeable enough. Blood. Papa talked about blood all the time as if it were a god, something unsullied and precious. It runs through your veins, Merope, he would lecture, his eyes glowing. It runs through your veins, girl, and it is damned special.

So that -- Merope inched a little closer -- that was this blood, this crimson blotch now before her. That was blood…but Papa said that only she had it. How could a common Muggle, how could Christian Jones have what was supposed to be hers?

When she arrived home, she pulled on Papa's shirt. He grunted at her, and Merope decided it was okay to ask. "Does everyone have blood, Papa?"

"Where'd you get a question like that?" She remained silent. Papa shifted his weight and looked at her. "Well, everyone's got it. You see, though, our blood is much better than their blood."

Merope didn't know if _their_ referred to the accident boy or the Mudbloods Papa and Morfin cackled about, but the idea was the same and her belief confirmed: a lot of people might have it, hers was still the best.

Somewhere, she still couldn't shake the image of a boy no older than her sprawled among the fish, his head cracked open at the skull, and this blood flowing out of the crack like a fountain. She should believe Papa. Hadn't she been taught that he was always right, that anything else anyone else told her was a big lie?

She, however, doubted that Papa had ever even seen blood. She didn't trust him.

Merope was six years old when she walked into her garden, picked up the sharpest rock she could find, and smashed her head into it. She nearly fell backwards with the impact of the blow, her vision blurring and steps faltering. She raised a hand to her forehead and found it sticky. It felt a little bit like mud, she decided, like mud right after it rains and Papa warns her not to go outside.

It looked like Christian's blood.


End file.
